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THE 



BURNIAD; 



AN 



EPISTLE TO A LADY, 



In the Manner of Burns. 



POETIC MISCELLANIES, 



ORIGINAL AND IMITATIVE. 



BY 

JOHN-HENRY KENNEY. 



lontJon; 

PRINTED FOR VERNOR, HOOD, AND SHARPE, 
31, POULTRY; 

At the Union Printing Office, St, John's Square, by W. Wilson, 
1808. 



CONTENTS, 



Page 
1HE Burniad; or, an Epistle from Robert Bonis, 

Sec. 3 

To my Muse. All Imitation of Burns 19 

Fragment on the Death of Barns 27 

An Epistle to Cnrio 

Ode to Erato 59 

Lyndolph 41 

Verses written in a Post Chaise » 46 

The Lily and the Rose, a Fable 49 

A Character < . • . 59 

The cruel fate of John Dobbin 61 

April-Day 72 

The Bee and the Rose, a Fable 75 

Stanzas to Contentment • • • 80 

Jane M'Donnell, a Ballad 87 

The " Farewell" 95 

Henry to Emma, (in Reply to the " Farewell") 97 

Song, in Reply to " How sweet the love," &c 99 

" Will you come to the Bower," a Song 102 

The Voice of Love, ditto • 104 

Gin ye believe me 7 ditto • « • 1 



IV 

Page 

An Epitaph 109 

Sonnet I. Ill 

II. 112 

III. To the Skylark 113 

IV. 114 

V. 115 

— VI. • 116 

VII. To Happiness 117 

to B. F. Author of " Ellen " 119 

to the Memory of William Browne, Esq. • • • • 120 

Two Epitaphs on Infants i 22 

The Death of Malvina. An Imitation of Ossian • • . • 125 

Address to the. Skylark 139 

Morning 141 

Spring 143 



PREFACE. 

J.HE customary appendage of a Preface to 
every publication, however unimportant, being 
it seems indispensihle, I find myself much at 
a Joss what to offer in excuse for exposing, 
perhaps to much censure, the little volume now 
before the reader. Besides, having interspersed 
explanatory notes, where I imagined explanation 
might be necessary, I conceive there is the less to 
say on this occasion ; and the less there is said 
about trifles, such as the following, the better. 

The reader will not be long in discovering that 
the title of " Burniad" is erroneous, in being pre- 
fixed to the epistle or verses addressed to Miss 

G ; and the only apology that can be offered 

for this impropriety is, that it acquired this title 



VI 

after it had been seen by that lady and others in 
MS. and it was not considered of much conse- 
quence since to alter it. Neither did it ever occur 
to me what more appropriate title could be 
adopted. I must confess that this apology, the 
only one that can in truth be pleaded, is very in- 
sufficient for an error which is allowed to be in- 
defensible. 

Although poetry is privileged, and universally 
supposed to sport its fancy more in fiction than 
truth, I have, in the lines entitled " Lyndolph," 
strictly adhered to such truths as came within 
my knowledge. But the simple tale of truth 
is often superior to the effusions of poetry : nor 
did I, as the lines themselves may evince, expect 
or intend to produce an eulogy on a person highly 
esteemed and deservedly deplored — and to some 
of whose family I owe an eternal obligation. I 
merely hoped, by having these lines seen through 
the medium of a periodical publication, that they 



Vil 

might give birth to some meritorious and lasting 
tribute of just praise to the memory of the ac- 
complished Lyndolph. The hope, however, died 
away almost as soon as the lines were written, and 
the design dropt from a belief that they would 
not attract the notice of any " tuneful Muse." 

I have nothing further to remark, but that 
poetry, however trifling, affords much pleasure to 
those who have inclination, and leisure from the 
important occupations of life, occasionally to pro- 
duce it ; and it must be very indifferent indeed, in 
a volume even as small as the annexed, that is 
incapable of affording half an hour's amusement 
to a few r readers ; beyond which, neither my ex- 
pectation nor ambition, in the present instance, 
extends. 

J. H. KENNEY. 

London, Feb. 1806, 



THE BURNIAD; 

OR, 

AN EPISTLE FROM ROBERT BURNS, 

(the scotch ploughman and poet,) 

TO MISS GR—FF—N, 



Who wrote on the Back of his Picture, in a Book of 
his Poems: 



I WISH THIS BOOK WAS MY PROPERTY." 



BURNS s POEMS, in a single volume, had been lent 
to a friend, and when returned, the words — " I wish this 
Book was my Property," — were observed to have been 
written on the back of a miniature of Bums, which was 
prefixed to the book. This was soon discovered to have 

been done by Miss Gr , w 7 ho had accidentally seen 

the bock; and so favourable an opportunity of paying an 
elegant and admired young lady, some little poetic com- 
pliment, en the occasion, was not to be resisted. The 
Scottish Muse was invoked ; and Burns's Poems, in which 
the writing jet remains, >have been presented to the Lady 
(who wrote the wish) together with a copy of the following 
Verses. 

London, Dec, 1807. 



THE BURNIAD; 

OR, 

AN EPISTLE FROM ROBERT BURNS, 
TO MISS GR—FF—N. 



Ha ! — what is this ?— As I'm a man, 
By lovely Kate, an 7 by her fan, 
I ken it weel — It is the haa' 

(I'd swear it, if in 
The farthest corner o' the Ian') 

Of Kitty Gr—ff~n ! 

Ye ca'd me, lass 1 or what's the same, 
Ye wislid for me, an' here I am ; 
Frae aff Benlomori just I cam', 

Wi' rattlm' glee, 
To throw me, blest beneath the beam 

0' Kittys ee ! 



4 

An* did ye truly wish me thine ? 

Fly down frae Heaven, ye tunefu Nine ! 

Come, chime a lilt o* verse sae line, 

That Kate shall say 
We've drown'd * John-Barleycorn in wine 

This monie a day. 

Go, Fortune! Go wi' a' your clan,— 

I dinna envy ye the span 

O' the huge warl — sin Kittys han*, 

Upo' my back, 
Has mark'd me out a happier man, 

In white an* black ! 

An* gin ye read— in blade an white, 
Come Fortune, witness my delight ; — 
(But ye're a jad that squint wi' spighfc 

On 2! the thrang 
(V sic as love in verse to write, 

The warl amang.) 

* See a Poem of Burns 9 so called 



Then hear, an free me hence frae care,- 
Or do your warst, an' dinna spare ! 
Sin Kitty, wi' her han' sae fair, 

Has written down, 
She wisKd me hers — I'll fearless dare 

Your sourest frown ! 

Whas Kitty Griffin ? wad ye say : 
Och, Fortune ! wheresoe'er ye gae, 
In Enhrughj or in Lorion gay, 

Could she be seen, 
Their brightest Belles maun rin away, 

An' wail, an' teen. 

She lives unknown, alane, unseen, 
Like Lilly o the desert green, 
Wi' in a village, ca'd Elphin, 

A Bishojfs See, 
la Irelart, 'mang the wild spalpeen, 

Mair shame to thee I 



6 

Och ! that I had ye by the lug ! 
Guid troth ! I'd gie it sic a tug, 
? T\vad shake the powder o' your wig, 

Or ye should rin, 
An' dance anither sort o' jig, 

Aroun' Elphin. 

Ye should na leave the gentle Anne, 
Alicia, Margaret, pretty Fan', 
Wi* Kate, (the peerless o' the Ian') 

While i* their teens, 
Ere Hymen wf ye, out o y han, 

Should make them Queens, 

An' the twa blooming Cottage Maids, 
An' sim that grace the rural shades 
O' Cherryjield, an* i' the glades 

O' Cloonahee, 
Where lovely Anne adorns the meads, 

Sae bonnilie. 



An' that sweet little Maid, sae fair, 
Wi' coal-black ee, an' raven hair, 
That like a precious jewel rare, 

Of lustre bright, 
Where yonder Mantuan plains appear, 

Dazzles the sight. 

But baud thee, Muse, — Ye dinna ken 
That Fortune has * her by the ban', 
An' e'en now leads her thro' the glen, 

Wi' a' the Loves, 
An' Graces, smiling round her ben, 

To Durham's groves. 

An' wha is that, sae fair an' ta', 

Wi* head an' shoulders boon them a' 1 

A comely Damsel, rare an' braw, 

In onie place ! 
The Mantuan Beauty men her ca', 

Young Kitty Gr — ce. 

* The young Lady here alluded to, at this time resided 
at Mantua, the seat of Capt. Grace, to whose family she. 
was nearly related. 



8 

But wheresoe'er I cast my ee, 

Some rising Beauty I maun see 

At Frcnch-Parke, Smith-Hill, Cloonahee, 

An* Lissadurn ; 
An' yonder beauteous Sisters three, 

At Cloonyburn. 

An' monie ither might I sing ; 
But when the Muse is on the wing, 
She canna ev'ry flow'r o' Spring, 

However rare, 
Collect wi' in her Bouquet-string, 

Frae 'mang the Fair. 

But, Fortune ! Fortune ! wad ye hear 
A rustic Bardie's ardent pray'r, 
Och ! make each several Lassie fair, 

That here I've named, 
Sae mickle your peculiar care, 

That yell be famed. 



An* gin ye're not an* arrant jacT, 
Ye'll gie each Lass a strappan Lad, 
W? youth, an health, an' a' things clad, 

Frae out your dish ; 
An' bless them, till their hearts are glad, 

T their fu' wish. 

Ere May-day next then, may ye meet 

Sic fortune, smiling i' th' street 

O' EIphi?i-town, ye lasses sweet I — 

I loo ye a ! 
An' gin the warl was at my feet, 

Ye'd turn the ba' ! 

But, lovely Kitty ? now let's tell 

A wee bit something o' luyseF, 

For Muse hae rattled up the hill, ' 

As ever yet 
She rins wi' me, at random will, 

An unco fit.-— 



10 

Ye see me here, frae head to foot 

My unchang'd claes a' black's my boot ; 

For Time's a smutty-finger'd Cloot, 

Books, or men reading. 
E'en loveliest faces, (blastit brute !) 

Maun show his breeding. 

An' faith, his breeding is but sma', 
On Nature's fairest warks to draw 
His cursed, wrunkied, wizen'd paw — 

Vile thief o' hell ! 
How daur ye squint where Nature braw 

Does maist excell 1 

Of a' the griefs my heart maun bear, 
(An', och ! 'tis prest wi' monie a care) 
There's naething gars it half sae sair, 

In a* life's range, 
As that the lovely-blooming Fair 

Should ever change ! 



11 

Their virtues, youth, an' beauty whiles, 
Their native innocence, an* smiles, 
Their artless an 7 sweet artfu wiles, 

Sin' the warl's birth, 
Make, (spight o' a' its cares an' toils) 

A Heaven o' earth ! 

Och ! wicked Time ! then sure thou'rt curst, 

An' of Man's rnonie foes the warst ; 

Of a' Heaven's favourite works, the Jtrst, 

To be sae bauld ? — 
I ferlie how T , vile carle ! ye durst 

Make young Maids auldl 

It sairly marks your want o' taste, 
x\mang the Girls to mak' a waste, 
An' o'er the morn 0' youth sic haste 

As leaves no trace, — 
A' like the menseless Winter's blast 

O'er Nature's face. 



12 

What! is't because yoursel is auld, 
An' e'en your vera heart's bluid cauld, 
An' that ye're childless, (as I'm tauld) 

Ye envy ithers ? 
An/ wad na' that the Virgin-fauld 

Should e'er be Mithers ? 

Ye* re greedy as a shark or pike, 
An' seem to swallow a' alike ; — 
E'en do sae still, as best ye like, 

Us Men to vex ; 
But dinna wi' your auld age strike 

The lovely sex ! 

Oh spare them, for their wee bit harms ! 
Oh spare them, for their heavenly charms ! 
Oh spare them for their youth, that warms 

The saul o' man ! 
Oh ! tho* a' conqu'ring be your arms, 

Hand back your han'! 



13 

Or gin ye canna wed forbear 
Still to be meddling wi' the Fair, 
Auld Jockie Time, — be it your car©, 

Withouten fail, 
To baud their beauty, grace, an' air, 

I* their entail ! 

An' never let the lustre die 

O' Kitty s beauty -beaming eye; 

But when y t maun fade, then mak* it fly, 

(The vvarl to grace) 
To monie a lovely girl an* boy, 

Her infant race ! 

Graunt this, ye reverent Father Time, — 
Sae Kate may flourish in her prime, 
As lang 's a Bardie's found to chime ; 

An* that will be 
Whiles that a Lass is worth a rhyme, 

Tse warrant thee. 



14 

But should auld Time, withouten grace, 
My cantie cramboclinks efface, 
An' tear my claes, an' smut my face, 

Wi' blotting art ; 
What then ? — He canna throw disgrace 

On Robbins heart. 

Sae tent me, Kitty, gin I've been 
By your twa stary-sparkling een 
A twelvemonth an' a day unseen, 

Come, tak' me hame, 
Turn inside out, an* outside in, 

I'm yet the same. 

I dinna mean to praise mysel' ; 

Yet I maun say, there's monie a chiel, 

(God graunt ye never ken it weel ! j 

Wad ye but try, 
Wad but abide sic trial ill 

In onie eye. 



15 

For, there be men ye Lovers ca', 
That doat, an' doat upo' ye a' ; 
But cut o sight, an' far awa, 

(A. saying true,) 
They slight your charms, nae worth a straw, 

For faces new. 

But he that wad in absence mourn, 
An' languish till that ye return ; 
His tender bosom a 7 a-burn, 

The langsome year ; 
That bauds a' ither's charms in scorn, 

Mak' him your dear. 

? Tis absence puts the false to shame, 
But proves the falthfV Lover's flame. 
It kindles up the luslrous beam 

In Lover's ee, 
When chaunce wad kindly speak your name, 

Where'er ye be. 



16 

An' when ye meet by chance, or not, 
Wi' him that vows on ye to doat ; 
Oh, read his ee upo' the spot, 

Wi' tentie leuk ; 
'Tis truer far, ye'll find, I wot, 

Than tongue, or beuk. 

But dinna, Kitty, too lang frown 
On onie that hae true love shown ; 
For, Time flies swift, an* waits for none, 

An' beauty fades; 
An' Ladies die, aft', (scornfu* grown,) 

Forsaken maids. 

Yet you, sweet Kitty, need na fear, 
Nor watch wi' over-anxious care : 
A dizzen Beaux shall roun* your chair 

A' trembling stan', 
While ither Ladies, young an' fair, 

May sigh for ane* 



17 

— Fareweel, sweet Girls ! an' may ye find 
A Lover each, a* to your mind ! 
Hech ! — now that I hae turn d behind 

My ee asklant, 
I see I've scatter'd i' the wind 

A develish rant ! 

Full fifty verse, I doubt, or mair, 
(Trouth unintended) we might spare ; 
They wriggle roun', an' here, an' there, 

In jumblm' pother, 
Just like mixt cattle in a fair, 

O' top o' other. 

Sae, Kitty, now Til end my sang, 
Already by a mile too lang ; 
An* sin', your wishes a' amang, 

Ye wish'd for vie, 
May naething i' the warl gae wraug 

Tween them an' thee ! 



18 

An' still w? care an* fond delight, 
Like onie Sylph, or Guardian-Spright, 
Aroun' the year, baith day an* night, 

In a' life's turns, 
I'se see that Fortune deal thee right, 

While Robert Burns. 



BENLOMOND, 

July, 1801. 



19 

TO MY MUSE: 
AN IMITATION OF BURNS. 



AWAKE, awake, my sonsie Muse, 
An' dinna wait to clasp thy shoes ; 
I've got me in the rhyming noose, 

An* wad be trotting 
I canna think that ye'll refuse 

The theme I've got in. 

Now dinna fuffwi' ferlie start, — 

Or, acting but a jillet's part, 

Gae dress thee a' in silks sae smart, 

For truth I'll tell: 
I'd rather hae thee as thou art, 

Thy naked sel\ 



20 

Nae glunches from thy sleekit brow, 
But dimpled be thy bonnie inou, 
And briskly come awa me now, 

An' don't be creeping 
For you hae been, I dinna how, 

Lang time a sleepin'. 

wad you but for half an hour, 

On me your smiles enchanting sUowV, 
I'd never cease to bless the Pow'r 

That gae thee life, 
An' gin ye like the nuptial bow'r, 

Mak' thee my wife. 

Ye leugh, sweet gipsey ! sic a smile 
Wad a the fash o' life beguile ; 
Wi' thee, O naething wad be toil, 
My bonnie j inker; 

1 canna think ye'd e'er revile 

Me for a blinker. 



21 

Ye wad na ever play the minx, 
An' leave me lorn \\i' weary jinks, 
To string me nought but craniboclinks, 

An' empty jingle ; 
But warm my saul w? cannie blinks 

Aside the ingle. 

Then come awa' my faithfu Muse, 
I hae nae mickle time to lose ; 
Ye're nae sae paughty 's to refuse 

My namely offers ? 
I'se take thee i' thy slip-shod shoes, 

An' plackless coffers. 

An' Musie — listen to my sang, 
I dinna think I do thee wrang, 
For ye maun ken, and ken it lang, 

More shame to be 
A Limmer to the rhymin' thrang, 

Than Bride to me, 



22 

But oh, gin ye be yet afraid 
To press the hymeneal-bed, 
An' scorn to take me, (donsie blade) 

To be thy mon ; 
E'en make me, cannie gracefu' maid ! 

Thy it her son! 

Then haste, my minnie, haste away, 
An' seek the Caledonian bay ; 
To horse, my Lassie, no delay, 

But mount auld Dobbin, 
Direct his flight across the sea 

To brither Robbing 

We'll find him on the banks of Ayre, 
Chauntin' about the " Holy fair*" 
Or rinnin to his auld grey Mare, 

That He ca's Maggie f, 
Wi' corn to hansel the new year, 

An' fill her baggie. 

* Alludes to a poem of Burns so called. 
t On this subject he has also a poem. 



23 

Or aiblins, we shall find the man, 
The crooked pettle in his ban', 
A turning up the fallow-Ian' 

Wi' merry glee, 
Singing how life is hut a span, 

Sae bonnilie. 

Or gin He be not at the pleugh, 
My Suuday-sark I'se wager you, 
WVse hear him roarin like a sugh, 

Bout " tea ari winnocks" 
\VT guid " Scotch drink" his noddle fir* 

" At auld Name Tinnock's" 

We'se scarce be light at Benlomori*, 
When aff I'll rattle like a gun, 
An' to Burns' Coffee-house I'll run, 

To hear him speak 
On politicks, an' a' that fun, 

" Nine times a-week." 

* Benlomoud is a noted mountain in Dunbartonshire, 
in Scotland, 



Awa then, Dobbin, spread thy wings, 
An bring us to the Ian' o' springs, 
I lang to see how Robbin strings 

His magick Lyre, 
An* listen how the Bardie sings 

Amang the choir. 

An' I hae made me spruce an' clean 
Wi' braw new plaid o' silken sheen, 
For joy to find sae sweet a frien' 

Ayont the Cairns, 
For I maun spend next Halloween 

Wi' Robert Burns. 

My heart is up ! an' I'm a' brisky 
For Halloween* wi' monie a pliskie ; 
The vera thought o't sets me friskie, 

Like magick spell, 
Or 's tho' I'd ta'en a cup o' whiskey 

Wi' Burns himsel'. 

* See Burns's poem called « Halloiveen" 



25 

But tell me, Mither, wad He scorn 
To sound for me his mellow horn, 
An' whistle blithe frae night to morn, 

For sic a laddie, 
Who's but, ye ken, sin I was born, 

A Connaugkt-Paddy ? 

Alake, alake ! gin it be sae, 

My vera heart will brast wi' wae ! 

An' now I'll brak my reed in twa, 

An' stap my sang ; 
Nor ever maer my head I'll shaw 

The Nine amang. 

But no ! — -I'll harbor na' th' alarm, 
Nor in my brains raise sic a starm : 
The bard wad frienly shake my arm, 

Whose verses prove 
A heart sae tender, true, an' warm, 

An' fu' o' love. 



26 

Haste then, dear Mither, haste away, 
An' now we're ganging down the brae, 
Gin Dobbin makes much longer stay, 

I'll seize my flail, 
And clap, ere He gets owre the sea, 

A spur in 's tail. 

For och ! my vera bosom burns, 

As aft I read his " Man that mourns*" 

Wi' him to mark out Fortune's turns, 

Beneath thy wing ; 
An* learn, like thine adopted Burns, 

Sweetly to sing. 

Oh, gie me, wi' his wit to please, 
His sweet simplicity, an* ease, 
His dulcet notes, his native grace, 

His modest lear', 
His pipe to chaunt my joys, or waes, 

I ask nae maer. 

* " Man was made to niourn."— -A beautiful dirge in 
Burns's Poems. 



27 



A FRAGMENT, 
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT BURNS, 

The celebrated modern Scotch Poet *. 



AN' hast thou bid the warl farewel, 
Sweet brither o' the tunefu' shell ! 
Ah me ! I hear the dolefu knell, 

Hark — it returns ; 
An' is't (waes me !) the passing bell 

Of Robert Burns I 

Ah welladay ! alake, alake ! 

Sure thy loo'd Jenny's heart maun break, 

Are these her moans that, for thy sake, 

Sigh on the gale, 
As the lorn Zephyrs dooVd to speak 

The mournfu' tale 1 

* He died July 1796, aged 33 years ; and was, though so 
young, and confessedly illiterate, the brightest poetical 
genius of the age, 



28 

I list', an' och ! methinks I hear 
The sad lorn dirges o'er thy bier, 
An' down liiy cheeks fu' monie a tear 

In silence steal ; 
But when a' silent I appear, 

The more I feel. 

An' now alane, frae night to morn', 
In grief Til raise my rusiick horn ; 
(Mysel like thee a ploughman born) 

To raak' my moan ; 
Thy brither Bardie a ? forlorn, 

Sin ? thou art gone ! 



POETIC TRIFLES. 



POETIC TRIFLES, 



AN 

EPISTLE TO CURIO. 

CURIO, while you within your study sit, 
And shoot, at will, your ever-ready wit ; 
In chiming happy satires on mankind, 
That raise a laugh, but leave no sting behind ; 
And even to him, whose folly is your theme, 
Give not a pain, but pleasure in extreme ; 
Or, noting errors in the silly stuff 
That goddess Reason's sons around us puff ; 
(Wretches who first in folly's lures begin, 
Step following step, till plunging headlong 
O'erwhelm'd, they rush thro* ev'ry varying 
" Past cure, past hope*," — for refuge then they fly 
To the dire salve of infidelity ! 

* Shakespeare. 



ig sin ; } 



32 

Deceiving others, they themselves deceive, 

And only add new horrors to the grave.) 

Or while, some better object in your view, 

Physic, or metaphysics you pursue ; 

Or, not less skiU'd, the scriptures you expound 

To your poor tenantry and neighbours round ; 

Open their eyes to see beyond the grave, 

And look on ignorance as a drowning wave ; 

Or, as a magistrate, both fraud and strife, 

Heal, ere their thorns have strew'd the path of life, 

By simple means a peaceful issue draw, 

Nor c'erstep justice in — a point of law ; 

And many an orphan's, many a widow's mite, 

Wrest from th' expectant fell attorney's bite ; 

Or, while to active industry alive, 

You form the plough, or train your youth to drive ; 

Or, with mechanic skilful art produce 

Things form'd for pleasure, ornament, and use ; 

Or, with botanic ardour you adore 

Th' allwise Designer of each separate flowV ; 



33 

Class them in order, and produce to light 
The male, the female, and hermaphrodite ; 
Shew how the very winds by Him were sent, 
And that all nature is but His intent. 

What others call an idle hour to spend, 
Instructing both your family and friend, 
Here with an artist's pencil now you trace 
Some living image of the feather'd race ; 
Or, rang d in classes, to the wondering eye 
Display the beauties of the butterfly, 
In all its varied plumage*; — such your art, 
Genius, and taste, and happy pow'rs t' impart 
Instructive pleasure from each varying source 
To which your active spirit has recourse ; 



* Lyonet, in his ingenious and accurate notes on M. 
Lesser's " Insecto-Theology," insists that " the name of 
plates, or scales, would agree better with the coloured dust 
which adorns the wings of butterflies and moths, than 
feathers," — Page 402, 



Skilful in all, (and rightly skiil'd) to find % 

In herb, plant, flow'r, and ev'ry living kind, v. 
The Power Creative and all-ruling Mind. j 
Or, charm'd by Newton, on his wings of light, 
You soar from darkness, and these shades of night, 
To other worlds ! — to Heaven itself you soar, 
Th' Almighty Framer of the whole t' adore ! 



While you, my friend, these pleasing cares unite, 
Giving to others, as yourself, delight ; 
And such delight as leaves no sting behind, 
For time mispent to rankle in the mind ; 
I, (luckless wretch !) confin'd within a spot 

By adverse fate, and what I would do not ; 

Chain'd to low cares, yet, unrepining, here 
Waste in dark solitude the rolling year ; 
Seasons return, and idle pleasures come, 
But care and sorrow dwell within my home ; 
Pleasure pursu'd may mitigate a pain, 
But pleasure flies, and cureless griefs remain ; 



35 

Yet these to name can bring me no relief, 

And well you know the source ©f all my grief. 

But more than what you know, perhaps, I feel, 

(Somewhat, methinks, the sport of Fortune's wheel); 

And yet I blush to own a moment's pain 

From that which oftener moves my just disdain, 

How oft' with secret pleasure I deride 

The pelty insiguificauce of pride ! 

Its contumelious insolence I scorn, 

Hurt me it may, yet never shall I mourn ; 

Secure that time will justify my name 

Against the slanders of injurious fame. 

And yet, perhaps, that oftentimes 'tis found 
Dark lying Malice gives a lasting wound. 
A soul, not meriting her huudred tongues, 
May scorn, yet sink beneath a load of wrongs. 
But let me hold : — complaints can little serve, 
Blessings I have beyond what I deserve ; 
While those are mine, and while that I'm possest 
Of Curio's friendship— not esteem'd the least, 



36 

Sure 'tis a pleasure more than many feel, 
An healing balm to many a worldly ill, 
The world of all its crosses to beguile, 
And seek oblivion in the Muses* smile. 

Oh thrice, thrice happy he whose leisure hours, 
Unnumber'd, lead to their elysian bow'rs ! 
Life, that to others oft a load of cares, 
To him a sunbright summer-day appears ; 
Their smiles alone his raptured spirit fires, 
And bless with all his fondest wish desires ; 
The cares of life, — its follies can controul, 
And yield the truest pleasure to the soul : 
Pleasure unsullied, unalloy'd by pain, 
Pleasure which gives not, nor receives a stain ; 
Pleasure which lifts the fancy oft' on high, 
Amid the regions of transcendent joy ! 

You'll think it strange, yet 'tis no more than true, 
Perhaps already ev'n 'tis known to you, 



37 

That while I dread, not scorn a Poet's name, 
And shrink with trembling from the glance of 

fame, 
Yet here retir'd, a leisure hour I choose, 
To weep in numbers with the tragic Muse ; 
Or sometimes, as occasion gives the rein, 
Give to th* unthinking world, unknown, unseen, 
In verse or prose an essay or a song, 
As fancy bids the leisure to prolong. 
Or chime a sonnet while the fields I rove, 
To my life's partner, and my only love ; 
To her whose charms of innocence and truth, 
Hold still that soul they won in early youth, 
Never to change, while life to me is given, 
(For my fond vows were register'd in Heaven !) 
Tho' health, life's truest blessing, she bemoan, 
And Death remorseless claims her as his own ! 



O Curio, while I say it, every ill 
To this were nothing, I could bear them still : 



38 

The frowns of Fortune, and the scorns of pride, 
And false-tongu'd slander too I could deride ; 
But this, tho' long-expected, let me own, 
O'erwhelms my spirit, and my heart weighs down; 
But let me stop.— To you those lines I send, 
To you alone — a sympathizing friend, 

1805. 



39 
ODE: 

TO ERATO. 



QUEEN of softest, sweetest Song, 
All the heavenly Nine among, 
Turn thee not in scorn away 
From a Country-rustic's lay ! 

Bring, O bring thy magic lyre, 
Strike its sweetly-warbling wire, 
Till the notes harmonious prove 
All th* enrapturing strains of love ! 

When my Spirit, dead to pleasure, 
Invocates thy plaintive measure, 
Bid th* elegiac numbers flow 
In tend'rest thrilling notes of woe ! 



40 

Void of anguish, void of care, — 
Come, with thy enlivening air ; 
Till the world around me swarms, 
RavishM with Allegro's charms ! 

Whether dooni'd the slave of pain, 
Wearing Loves desponding chain, 
Or in Hopes enchanting smile, 
Time and absence I beguile ; 

Be my voice of tender love, 
Never raised but to emove ; 
And, blest with thy inspiring art, 
Ever captivate the heart ! 



FORT-OBERON, 



41 



LYNDOLPH. 



LIVES there no Muse to weep thy early fall, 
Ill-fated Lyndolph ? Shall a ruffian's hand, 
A base-born, nameless, outlawed, ruffian's hand, 
Triumph in secret o'er thy bleeding corse, 
Full in our view, — while Pity, sorrowing sad, 
(Sweet Cherubim of Heaven !) with tearful eye 
Points at the deed, in silence points, and weeps, 
" And weeps the more because she weeps in * vain?' 

Ye sons of poesy, ye minstrel throng ! 
(Numerous as stars in Heaven's etherial concave,) 
Shall genius, wit, aud learning idly stoop 
In polish'd numbers, and in courtly rhymes, 
To flatter beauty ? Shall a coquet's frown 
A labor'd song, in elegiac strain, 

* Gray's Sonnet, 



42 

Moving each heart to sympathetic tears, 
Give birth to ! — Shall insipid praises gorge 
The public prints, and pompous elegy 
Betray th' insulted spirit of the Muse, 
Fetter'd in golden chains — to chime the fall 
Of titled grandeur, or ignoble pride, 
Despis'd or unlamented ] And shall Lyndolph, 
Lyndolph, the risiag star of many hopes, — ■ 
The patriot, and the soldier, wise and learn d, 
Ingenuous, noble, spirited and brave, 
Who to be known was only to be seen, 
Whom Virtue honour'd, and whom Love admir'd- 
Ah! has he fall'n, and Muses, do ye rest 
In mute, mute silence 1 — Is there none to raise 
* " The song of memory S* to tell his name, 
His many virtues, and his generous deeds, 
Borne on the wings of modesty and truth ? 

What can an uncouth Country-rustic's voice, 
Attun'd to unexaggerating praise? 

* Ossiau. 



43 

For such a world unfit, that no rude rhymes, 

(Such as, alone, his untaught reed assays) 

Could win the ear of. Long his eyes have search'd, 

Long has he lisien'd, but in vain, to hear 

TV untimely fate of Lyndolph justly moura'd. 

Spirits of harmony ! Ye heavenly Nine ! 
He that was wont, in early youth to seek 
Thy favourite haunts, thy solitary shades, 
And sometimes sported in thy sylvan bow'rs, 
And sipp'd the liquid nectar of thy springs, 
Is He forgot ] — Shall envious Death so soon 
Blot out his memory 1 — Is ? t indeed his fate, 
Like some vile grovelling reptile of the earth, 
A beast, — a worm, — unheeded, and unknown. 
To moulder into dust 1 — alas, the day ! 

Oh faithless world ! — while Fortune's sunbeam 
shone 
On happy Lyndolph, every tongue was loud 



44 

In his just praises. Wheresoe'er He went 
A train of youth attended on his steps, 
(Proud to be notic'd pages of his train.) 
Where he appear'd, the soul of Beauty thrill'd, 
And Pleasure hail'd him with her brightest smiles. 
But, sad reverse ! and melancholy proof 
Of the frail friendship of this brittle world ! 
Lyndolph is fallen ! — fallen in his country's cause, 
Full in the prime of spirit-glowing youth, 
And manly beauty blooming ! — all his virtues, 
Like stars appearing in a cloudless sky 
When Evening steals before th' advance of Night, 
Just rising into lustre. And, alas ! 
Is thus his star of brilliance set so low, — 
Falls it to earth, unnotic'd in its fall, 
Never to rise — while sordid imps of Vice, 
On whom the smiles of Fortune are bestowed, 
Shall have their songs of eulogy to boast ? 
Forbid it, Oh ye Pow'rs, to whom belong 
The soul of poesy, and love of truth ! 



45 

Wake from your lethargy ; arise, and wake 
To vocal harmony your tuneful choirs. 
Tho' Lyndolph's fall'n, yet let his memory live : 
Snatch ye the golden Lyre, the dulcet Lute, 
The Harp of melody to sound his name. 

1805. 



46 



VERSES*, 

Written while travelling in a post-chaise, and flung out of 

its window the next day when returning, en passant , 

to a young lady near Belturbet. 



ALONE and fatigued as I reckon each mile, 

And strange faces only to greet, 
I vow, (if the Muses will deign but a smile), 
A verse I will spin, the dull hours to beguile, 

To the first pretty girl that I meet. 

I've met with a dozen — I've met with a score, 
In odd ones, by twos and by threes ; 

I have met at least fifty — an hundred or more ! 

Good Heaven! they're too many to number them 
o'er,— 
Yet none that my fancy can please. 

:■ - ^ ' •* . ', ■ ' , ~ ■ = 

* The writer was on his way to meet a friend, with 
whom he returned the following day. In going he had 
accidentally a very near view of the young lady. On his 
return he also saw her, and flung to her the original of 
these verses. 



47 

Oh ! yonder's an angel, that smiles like the morn 
When Spring's in the height of her charms, 
Or when May, lovely May ! in her infancy born, 
(The sweet child of Nature !) does Nature adorn 
In all that the soul of man warms ! 

Her eyes are bright blue, and they sweetly dis- 
close 
A lively, yet innocent mind ; 
Her bosom's like snow, and her lovely cheek 

glows 
In all the soft tints of the beautiful rose, 
Of health, youth, and beauty combin'd. 

But, alas ! while with rapture I gaze and admire, 

It wrings (how severely) my heart, 
To think — -just the instant my soul's set on fire, 
And languishes ev'n with a longing desire — 
That the very same moment we part! 



48 

We part! — cruel Fortune !— to part us so soon, 
When you've just given her charms to my view ; 

She fades from my sight — ah ! already she's flown ! 

I shall ne'er see her more ! — she's eternally gone ! 
Adieu, lovely fair one, adieu ! 

Nov. 15, 1804. 



49 



THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 

A FABLE. 



A Rosebud once, in youthful pride, 
Bright-blooming at an arbor's side, 
DiftWd, with ev'ry passing breeze, 
The sweetest odours through the trees. 
Around, both far and wide, her name 
Resounded from the voice of fame. 
Her beauty, fragrance, and her grace, 
Were spoken of in ev'ry place ; 
And butterflies and bees, in swarms, 
Throngd to her yet unrivaU'd charms. 
All ranks and ages too drew near, 
And flattery soon assail'd her ear. 

Those outward charms which she possest, 
By Nature's bounteous favour blest, 

E 



50 

That beauty had she duly prized, 

But which she vainly idolized, 

Had she been taught to value less, 

Together with a glare of dress, 

Her charms, at least an hundred fold, 

Were passing credit to be told. 

Bright beauty many a breast may warm, 

But modesty's the fairest charm. 

Behold her now in all complete, 
A proud, yet silly, mean coquet : 
SkilFd in the sex's school-taught snares.. 
She practises a thousand airs, 
And ev'ry lover, to her shame, 
Meets fuel to augment his flame. 
Thus daily conquests make her vain. 
And pride intoxicates her brain. 
New conquests all her thoughts employ, 
(For conquests only give her joy), 
A double transport too to vex 
With spleen and envy all her sex. 



51 

The veil of sable-shrowded night 
Dissolv'd before the rays of light; 
Her tears, iu crystal drops irnpeaiTd 
Flower, shrub, and all the leafy world. 
Nature, refreshed, now smil'd around, 
And gems unnuinber'd deck'd the ground : 
'Twas spangled o'er of different dies ; 
Here azure bright with emerald vies ; 
On this side dazzling silver white, 
With vivid green, attracts the sight ; 
Scarlet and crimson, purple, blue, 
And some a gorgeous golden hue. — 
But far o'er all, the beauteous Rose 
Did more than half her charms disclose ; 
Now practising a thousand wiles, 
A thousand soft bewitching smiles, 
And all the graces, all the charms, 
(The lovely sex's lawful arms), 
Alternate each by her was tried, 
Till self-assurance satisfied. 



52 

Her charms while studious to display, 
A crowd of idlers round her play ; 
Bees, wasps, and butterflies among, 
And fopling zephyrs in the throng : 
This one she seems to meet with joy ; 
To that one more reserv'd and coy ; 
Now in the leaves reclines her head, 
Yet shows her cheek of blushing red. 
Then bending o'er the circling vale, 
She nods to each saluting gale, 
Till, gliding thro* the neighbouring trees, 
The young prince Zephyrus she sees. 
Zephyr beholds the beauteous maid, 
And rushing through th' embow'ring glade, 
With rapid wing the grove he cleaves, 
And sighs and pants amid her leaves. 
He goes, returns ; and bolder grown, 
He brushes round her thorny zone, 
He spreads his wing, with amorous freak, 
And gently fans her damask cheek. 



53 

He praises now her lip, her eye, 
Her bosom too of crimson die ; 
The balmy fragrance of her breath, 
Surpassing far the flow'ry heath : 
Her shape, her mien, her ev'ry feature, 
Are matchless all, he vows, in nature. 

To praises she should scorn to hear, 
Th' unthinking Rosebud lends an ear ; 
Nor think it strange that by vain pride 
Her female heart was gratified : 
By flattery even kings are won, 
And fond believing maids undone. 

But little know the female throng, 
While fluttering the gay world among, 
A crowd of lovers to allure, 
How lra*rd their fame to keep secure. 
A word, a look, may soon take wing, 
And Slander needs no more to sting. 



54 

And now the beauteous Rose with pride 
Has Zephyr fluttering at her side, 
Who, in each freedom bolder grown, 
She scarce repulses with a frown ; 
Tho' he, presumptuous, dares to sip 
The breathing nectar of her lip, 
Her cheeks with deeper crimson glow, 
Yet nothing of displeasure show. 

Flush'd with his conquest, he withdrew, 
And to his gay companions flew ; 
Whisper'd around the lady's favour, 
Her lips described of nect'rous flavour; 
With triumph counted o'er her charms, 
That gave such transport in his arms ; 
And gave them all to understand 
He had the fair-one at command. 
Now crowds of lovers daily came, 
And freely urg'd their amorous flame, 
But spoke not matrimony s name. 



55 

Her charms might please in single life, 
But who'd now chuse her for a wife ? 
Her pride was hurt, and with disdain, 
Indignant, she dismiss'd the train, 
While Wit and Malice buzz'd aloud 
Her ruin to th' unpitying crowd. 
Thus ev'n the very breath of fame 
Destroys a spotless virgin's name, 
Whose fault, whose only fault, we see, 
Was fashionable coquetry. 

When fops are favour'd by the fair, 
And modest worth with frowns they scare, 
Fell disappointment, soon or late, 
Is sure to measure out their fate. 
In wedded life a fop's a curse, 
(Yet to be single is thought worse). 
A rake, 'tis said, is often tam'd, 
But coxcombs never are reclaimed*. 



* This line is, I believe, borrowed from Gay. 



56 

Beside the Rose, of silver hue, 
An humble, beauteous Lily grew. 
Blooming and fair the flower was seen, 
And virtue shone throughout her mien. 
Her charms disturbed the Rose's rest ; 
Charms which the world's just praise confest 
And envy cauker'd in her breast. 
With unaffected modest guise, 
The Lily charm'd all hearts and eyes. 
The Rose beheld the hateful sight, 
Nor could refrain to vent her spite. 
" An upstart rival idolized, 
" And I neglected, or despised !" 
She thus began with haughty sneer : 
" Till now I saw you not so near. 
" Thy insolence, enough to move 
" The wonder of the Gods above, 
u Meets but contempt from her you'd vie, 
u With cheeks of pale consumptive dye. 
f€ And is it thou, with mimic grace, 
u Miss Vanity, with sallow face, 



\ 



57 

" Is't thou, with hypocritic art, 

" Has snar'd away young Zephyr's heart 7 

u I give hiru joy : upon my life, 

u You'll make him a most precious wife ¥ 

The Lily, with a modest air, 
Thus answer'd to the haughty fair : 
" Fairest of flowers, with grief opprest, 
" I know the troubles of your breast. 
" But why on others would you throw 
" The cause which to yourself you owe ? 
" Of ail the beauteous host of flow'rs, 
" That grace our Goddess* myrtle bow'rs, 
" Nature, who form'd us both, made you 
" Of most enchanting lovely hue, 
" And while your beauties strike our eyes, 
" Your breathing odours reach the skies. 
u But I, who boast nor form nor feature, 
" Nor any gift of partial Nature, 
" Alas ! what fears can you discover, 
" That I should rob you of a lover ? 



58 

" A moment's thought, without persuasion, 

" Acquits me of the accusation. 

" Se arch your own conduct, there you'll find 

" Your blighted hopes, and wounded mind; 

" Your numerous train of lovers flown, 

" Not virtuously remaining— one. 

" For few will chuse them for a wife, 

" The nymph who leads a flaunting life ; 

" And she that Would be woo ? d by all, 

" Is sure requited in her fall." 



1798. 



59 



A CHARACTER. 



HOW blest the world, if it alone enjoy'd 
Such characters as good old William Lloyd ! 
Aw'd in his presence, Folly slunk away, 
(As imps of darkness fly the eye of day ;) 
And impious Vice, and irreligious Pride, 
Conscious alike their impotence to hide. 
Of Vice the foe, but Truth and Virtue's friend, 
Justice and Wisdom did his steps attend. 
His slightest action Slander's tongue disarm'd, 
Even Malice blush'd, and found her bosom charm'cL 

Not praise of mortal, nor the formal stay 
Of frigid duty held him in his way ; 
The noble actions of his life, in part *, 
Were but the innate dictates of his heart : 

* This is but ill expressed : the meaning of the words is 
simply — the part he uniformly acted in life. 



60 

Need he for aught be fetter'd in controul, 
'Twas in lh' o'er-generous impulse of his soul ; 
Benevolent and liberal to all, 
To this his pity — there his love would fall. 
Of blighted hopes none ever could complain, 
And pining Want ne'er knelt to him in vain. 
Thus he possest, what thousands have desired 
In vain — that charm by all to be admired. 

With wisdom and with virtue he combined 
Unerring judgment, and a steady mind ; 
A soul superior to life's roughest storm, 
And which no worldly vanity could charm. 
This ne'er unrein'd his passions to the wind, 
That ever found him to the worst resign'd * ; 
Through seventy years he led a life serene, 
And, blest by his Creator, clos'd the scene, 

1800. 

* Mr. Lloyd bad a numerous issue, but he had the mis- 
fortune to lose several of his children at an early age ; in 
particular, four sons grown to man's estate, each of whom 
was not less remarkable for fine abilities than for veiy 
amiable dispositions, free from the tincture of vice, or the 
shadow of folly. 



61 

THE 

CRUEL FATE OF JOHN DOBBIN; 
(A TRUE STORY). 

JOHN DOBBIN, late a free-born Briton, 
Liv'd lack of care, Sir, as a kitten ; 
For that which makes the bosom light, 
A heavy purse, possest the wight. 
Thus blest, did honest John arrive 
In perfect health to sixty-rive, 
Hale, strong, robust ; an active man 
In all the duties of life's span. 
His cheeks were of a chesnut hue ; 
His eyes an honest laughing blue. 
No lease of lives, Sir, all around 
Without John Dobbin's name was found. 
But ah, how feeble human foresight ! 
How transitory brightest day-light ! 



62 

Not less precarious, Sir, is life, 
Or lovers' transports in a wife. 

But Fate decreed — and now there came, 
A Doctor of surprising fame ; 
Who settled near him in the country, 
And soon was known to all the gentry. 
Familiar soon in Dobbin's house, 
As in a barn, owl, rat, or mouse ; 
Welcome, whene'er he would, to dine, 
To quaff his ale, and taste his wine. — 
The Doctor long'd, 'tis said, to see 
If John was generous with a fee, 
Nor was he long in this suspense, 
Tho' anxious of the consequence ; 
For clever men will quickly find 
The thing that's uppermost in mind. 

At length the fated morning came, 
As 'tis averr'd by Lady Fame. 



65 

But yet no cloud portentous frown; d 
O'er the disaster coming round ; 
Tho' godlier man than John did never 
Sad Damon from the world dissever. 
Whence sceptics are inclin'd to think 
The heavenly Pow'rs but merely wink 
At the dire evils here below, 
In practice by our mortal foe. 
Others, (of whom I number one,) 
(Poor simpleton !) suppose that John, 
And such good men, too soon can ne'er 
Be summon'd to the upper sphere ; 
And howsoever call'd away, 
It ne'er affects the orb of day, 
And the spheres spin round, ever gay. 

Ah, yes I the sun that morning rose 
All beauteous in his Sunday-cloaths, 
When, full resolv'd, with powder'd wig. 
The Doctor order'd out his gig. 



s 



64 

His nags, tho' none of Phoebus' breed, 
Not long were ambling o'er the mead 
To Dobbin* s door ; spruce, shav'd and ruffled. 
Sans ceremonie in he shuffled. 

John sat at breakfast ; on his board 
Was fare that would not shame a lord : 
Cold Irish ham and humming ale, 
On which lov'd Dobbin to regale ; 
A pot of coffee to partake, 
And wash down eggs and butter'd cake* 
But far, far different was his lot, 
Death and the Doctor will'd it not. 
So far an old saw must not slip : 
That much falls out 'tween cup and lip. 
John stretch'd his hand — the Doctor stopt; 
His cane (all predetermin'd) dropt. 
He shrugg'd his shoulders, rais'd his brow, 
And well observed to make— no bow. 



65 

" Welcome, good Doctor ; take a chair ; 

" And sit to breakfast. — How you stare ! 

" What is the matter, man, declare V 

" The matter, Sir I" the Doctor cried; 

" The matter, Sir !" again replied. 

" Lord, bless me! why, how pale you're grown! 

" You, who were ever healthy brown ! 

" Do, Sir, but satisfy your sight : 

" Look in the glass — you see I'm right; 

u Put out your tongue, pray— there, Sir— Ha ! 

" 'Tis so— I knew it— La, la, la!" 

Musing, he turned aside to bite 

His taper thumb, all lily white. 

But midst his well-dissembled care, 

He duly notie'd Dobbins fare. 

The ruddy ham, slice after slice, 

He oft declar'd was wond'rous nice ; 

While drafts of th' ale, Sir, wash'd it down, 

Like Irish porter, stout and brown. 

Then gulp'd his eggs one after t'other, 

And of the coffee made no pother. 

F 



66 

And last , tho' not the least of all, 
A cordial drop to settle all. 

Not so poor honest John, alas ! 
He look'd, and re-look'd in the glass : 
Electrified in all his frame, 
He trembled ; and, in short, became 
In downright earnest, Sir, as pale, 
He saw it — as a board of deal. 
He felt too, he confest, in part, 
A palpitation at his heart. 
This to remove, and do him good, 
The man must lose a little blood. 
A lassitude and languor now 
Spread through his frame, sat on his brow. 
To solace this, a cordial julep 
Was quickly swallowed by this mule up. 
At night too he must take a pill, 
And thus, in truth, the man got ill. 
Next morn 'tis needless to relate 
His blood was in afebrile state. 



67 

His pulse was quick, his colour high, 
And turbid too was either eye. 
But yet the man could drink and eat, 
TW this the Doctor would not let; 
Not evn to pick a marrow-bone, 
But forc'd him down to slops alone. 
Poor man ! until this fatal day, 
He scarcely tasted vapid whey. 
I speak in earnest ; ah, how cruel 
To drench him now with water-gruel ! 
No wonder then, from being well, 
His bowels quickly did rebel. 
(And so will ministers of state 
Their subjects find, or soon or late, 
When novel impositions they 
Upon the healthful kingdom lay.) 

But to return : When inward ill 
Affects the human frame, it still 
Is certain thro' the blood it takes, 
And head above as surelv aches* 



68 

All which complained of, Doctor Neverout 

Declar'd that all be driven clever out. 

Or that the case, in his despight, 

Would become desperate outright. 

A strong emetic quickly swallow'd, 

Not operating, soon is followed, 

By what the Muse must leave sinister, 

Apothecaries term it ***** *. 

The patient's bowels thus outraged, 

A thundering noisome warfare waged ;• 

But peace at length restored, in haste 

The dire effects I sing are trae'd. 

A burning and a raging fever, 

That quit this hapless mortal never, 

O'er all his tortured body spread, 

And quite delirious made his head. 

The Doctor, never at a loss, 

Tho' things had turn'd out e'er so cross ? 

A blister to his feet applies, 

And Doctor James's powder tries. 



69 

Death, well assur'd, now whet bis scythe, 
A sapless mower, grimly Millie, 
To see his right good friend, the Doctor 
So well perform liis part as — proctor. 

The Doctor, yet without alarm, 
Recurs to each prescriptive charm ; 
But these (tor such is physic's curse) 
Make the ill-fated patient worse, 
Nor was the Doctor much surprised : 
One doubted drug he analyzed, 
And found (a common case 'tis true) 
That of the compound parts but few- 
Were what he ordered ; while the rest 
Were not allied to't in the least. 
But, lo ! in scrutinizing more, 
He meets a phial on the floor ; 
He eyes it, smells, and even tastes; 
To wake the snoring nurse now hastes : 
" Say, woman, as you hope for Heaven, 
" Was this curst phial by you given 



70 

" Here to our patient ; — if 'tis past ! — 

" 'Tis over with him !— He is lost !" 

The half-tranc'd woman, all amazed, 

With open mouth and eye-balls gazed. 

" Why, Sir, as I am a born sinner, 

" He drank it while you were at dinner : 

u I calFd you ; you were at your bottle, 

" And bid me, Sir, to hold my prattle, 

" Or that you'd surely squeeze my throttle." J 

" Hush ! hush! (the Doctor cried) no more !— 

" ; Tis useless speaking — all is o'er !" 

TTwas o'er indeed, and need I tell, Sir? 

The next thing order'd was — the bell, Sir : 

The Doctor and the nurse content, 

John Dobbin to the church-yard went. 



l 



EPITAPH. 

The dust that lies beneath this stone 
From earth arose — to earth- is gone ; 
A man it was ; his name was John. 



71 

What needs there any more to say, 
Of aught that e'er was mortal clay 1 — 
Your grave once clos'd, and o'er your bones 
A green turf plac'd, or some loose stones, 
Each turns his back, and heaves a sigh 
In thinking that — — himself must die. 
But reconciles him to the doom, 
In hoping many years to come. 

Next morn the sun shall shine as bright, 
The moon and stars appear at night ; 
The world roll on in usual pace, 
And Nature smile with wonted grace, 
As tho' on earth you'd never been, 
Or not for half an age past seen. 

Thus ev'ry tombstone round may prove 
How feeble mortal praise, or love ; 
How vain all monumental fame, 
When death erases ev'ry name* 



72. 



APRIL-DAY. 



YOUNG April comes, sweet child of spring! 
Borne on the fluttering Zephyr's wing ; 
Array 'd in Flora's earliest pride, 
A thousand gems adorn her side ; 
A thousand charms around display 
(Glad sight!) the new-born April- Day. 

But ah, how like the human race 
In infancy ! — Her beauteous face 
In sun-bright smiles awhile appears, 
Next hour all clouded and in tears. 
Bright suns of joy, and tears of grief, 
Thus measure out the span of life. 



73 

The lustrous sunbeam's chearing smile 
Invites 111' industrious bee to toil ; 
Ke seeks for treasures far abroad, 
But soon returns with half a load, 
Invoking ev'ry heavenly pow'r 
T avert th! impending April show'r, 

Again how fair, how sweet the morn ! 
TV enamel'd green, the budding thorn! 
And see, the primrose' opening charms 
Beneath the briar's embowring arms ; 
But soon her beauties fade in death, 
She feels the rude North's chilling breath. 

The skies with sudden gloom o'ercast, 
Pronounce th' approaching stormy blast ; 
The low'ring clouds, collecting rain, 
Drive pattering o'er the distant plain ; 
The farmer thanks th' Almighty Pow'r, 
Tis but a passing April show'r. 



74 

And see, yon tender lambkins run, 
The winds and driving hail to shun ; 
The feather'd choirs now cease to sing, 
They think lis Winter, and not Spring, 
Till Nature's quick returning ray 
Proclaims around the April-Day. 

Thus all man's brightest suns of joy 
Alternate show'rs of ills destroy, 
And ev'ry day, and ev'ry hour, 
Is clouded with a passing show'r. 
Youth flies; and ah! when flown away, 
We find Iwas but- an April- Day. 



1798. 



75 
THE BEE AND THE ROSE. 

A FABLE. 



THE sun arose in bright array, 
And genial Nature, on the wing^ 

In minstrelsy from ev'ry spray, 

Proclaim' d aloud the new-born spring. 

O'er verdant meadow, hill, and dale, 
Around was spread her mantle green ; 

And violets breath'd on every gale, 
And glittering daisies deck'd the scene. 

A youthful Bee, by winter's waste, 
Confin'd within his waxen cell, 

Now wak'd, rush'd forth in eager haste 
To riot in the flowery dell. 



76 

He circled round the spreading mead ; 

He sought the margin of the rill ; 
He wander'd thro' th* accustom'd glade, 

And visited each sunny hill. 

But th' humble flow'cs that yet adorn'd 
The woodland wild, or verdant plain, 

The little wanton proudly scorn'd, 
As men an easy prey disdain. 

At length, arrived at Ellen's bow'r, 
A beauteous rose-bud struck his sight ; 

He hovers round and round the flowY 
With glowing rapture and delight. 

Eager to snatch expected bliss, 
He flutters o'er her and beside ; 

But ev'ry time he dar'd to kiss, 
The rose-bud turns her head aside. 



77 

(O you, who practis'd in each art 
That lures the hapless virgin's fall I 

I need not whisper to your heart, 
How perseverance conquers all. 

To tales well feign'd, with treacherous wile, 
The coyest nymph will lend an ear ; 

And, melting at the covered guile, 
The prude relenting stoop to hear.) 

Still, persevering in his art, 

With flattery he assails her charms ; 
Till, conscious he has won her heart, 

The spoiler revels in her arms. 

But soon as stoln her treasur'd sweets, 
And all her virgin charms enjoy 'd, 

In triumph basely he retreats, 
And scorns the flow-r that he destro\'d. 



In vain she mourns her lover gone ; 

Her rifled charms in vain she mourns : 
She finds the one for ever flown — 

Lost innocence no more returns. 

Attend, ye fair, her hapless fate : 

T outlive her shame in vain she tries ; 

Prudence returns, but comes too late ; 

She fades — she droops her head, and dies ! 

Ye artless beauties, fair and young, 

And innocent as ye are fair, 
Beware the gay deceiver's tongue ! 

The tale insidious, O beware ! 

Beware the wretch who, like a bee 

That revels round from flow'r to fiow'r, 

Hums out his tale of treachery, 
Till artless maids are in his pow'r. 



79 

Think ev'ry youth, who talks of love, 
An idle, wanton, roving Bee — 

Thyself a Rose — till thou canst prove, 
By time, his truth and constancy. 

1792. 



30 

STANZAS 

TO CONTENTMENT. 



OFFSPRING of wisdom ! Ray divine 
Of chasten'd influence benign ! 

Thou antidote of spleen ! 
Mild foe to jealousy and strife, 
And passions, all empoisoning life, 

Conceard in ih' breasts of men. 

With heavenly soft-attemper'd smile 
Thou dost the hours of life beguile 

In sickness, pain, and grief; 
Reason's pure impulse prompts thy heart 
Such soothing solace to impart, 

As brings the wretch relief*' 



81 

Winter's wide waste, or summer's bloom, 
In Nature's transitory loom, 

Thou view'st with placid eye ; 
Halcyon sweets each season brings, 
And bears thee on the temperate wings 

Of true substantial joy. 

Contentment is Religion's child : 

Calm are her joys ; her pleasures mild ; 

Whose footsteps, if we trace, 
We'll find, that from the bed of care 
She raises agonized despair, 

For " all her paths are peace/' 

On Heaven her soul is ever bent ; 

To Heaven she points with fond intent ; 

And there, in boundless scope, 
Tho' all the ills of life molest 
Her tranqnil, un repining breast, 

She anchors all her hope. 



82 

With smiles of joy she hails each morn', 
(Eternal smiles her brow adorn), 

Beneficent to all. 
In vain misfortune aims her dart 
'Gainst her invulnerable heart, 

Or cup of envious gall. 

The arrows, that around her fly, 
Of envy, never damp her joy ; 

She scorns to heed their flight : 
She rails not at this " world of woe," 
While thousand pleasures round her flow, 

But takes in each delight. 

Come then, Contentment — soul of peace ! 
Celestial guardian of all bliss ! 

While memory shall last, 
Should earthly happiness be flown, 
Teach me to find, in thee alone, 

Oblivion to the past ! 



83 

O come, in all thy charms confest, 
Nor scorn a place within my breast ; 

But to my grasp be given ! 
And teach me ever to despise 
Alike those sorrows, cares, and joys, 

That cross the path to Heaven ! 



BALLADS AND SONGS. 



BALLADS AND SONGS. 



JANE M'DONNELL. 

A BALLAD. 

DID you hear of Jane M'Donnell ? 

(Lovely Jane of Castlebar) 
How she died, all broken-hearted, 

At the grave of Alleyn Carr ? 
; Tis a true and mournful story, 

Plain and simple, as it shou'd ; 
And this pair of hapjess lovers 

Were alike of gentle blood. 

It was when renown'd Cornwall is 
Was the sovereign of the land, 

After he had quench'd the troubles 
Of the French and rebel band : 



88 

Grief it is, and shame to think on, 
How an handful went so far ; 

And for six weeks, unmolested, 
Held the town of Castlebar ! 

Winter now (of death the emblem) 

Seem'd t' o'erhang the yellow vale ; 
Falling leaves, and fading flowers, 

Told the melancholy tale. 
Even so seem'd death to hover 

O'er the loveliest blooming flow'r 
That the hand of fate had ever 

Cropt in an untimely hour. 

Beauteous is the dawn of morning, 

When young zephyr, full on wing, 
Wafts around the odorous treasures 

Of the lovely blooming spring. 
Not less fair, nor less enchanting, 

Did the lovely Jane appear 
In charms, and all the female graces^ 

Blooming in her nineteenth year. 



89 

But alas ! how fleet and transient 

Life and all its charms are found ! 
Virtue, innocence, nor beauty, 

Wrest stern fate's remorseless wound : 
All those charms that thrhTd each bosom, 

And attracted ev'ry eye, 
Fading pale, in youth's meridian, 

Told that death was standing by. 

Pale those cheeks, like fading lilies, 

Where the damask rose had blown ; 
Dim her blue eye's beaming beauty, 

That with starry lustre shone : 
Slow and mournful now that footstep 

That so lately skimm'd the lawn ; 
Mute that voice that, like the skylark's, 

Carol'd at the early dawn. 

Nightly did the wretched maiden, 
When the midnight hour was come, 

From her sleepless pillow rising, 
Visit her true lover's tomb. 



90 

Unobserv'd, I stepp'd behind her, 
While with feeble pace she stray'd 

To the church-yard, where young Alleyn 
In his winding-sheet was laid. 

To his grave-stone faintly moving, 

O'er the well-known spot she hung, 
And, awhile in mournful silence, 

Oft her folded hands she wrung. 
Oft to Heaven her eyes were lifted, 

Oft she cast them on the ground ; 
Tender sighs her bosom rending, 

All in tears of anguish drown'd. 

Twas a cloudless night, in autumn ; 

Ev'ry star wit j brilliance shone ; 
And, from Heaven's o'erarching azure, 

Beam'd the full resplendent moon. 
Nature's voice was hush'd in slumber ; 

Silence reign'd, till with the gale 
Mingling sighs, heart-broken Jenny 

Breath'd this sad but artless tale. 



91 

ic All ! I know it : — 'tis his grave-stone ! 

" Ever loyal, ever true ; 
11 In his king's and country's service 

" Gallantly his sword he drew. 
" Fate is not to be resisted ; 

" Direful is the hand of war ; 
" He was taken by the rebels ! 

" He was hang'd at Castlebar ! 

" ies, they hung hiui — cruel wretches ! 

" Hung the pride of Irish youth ! 
" Matchless in his manly beauty, 

" Virtue, tenderness, and truth ! 
"Yes, they hung him — savage traitors ! 

" Stabb'd him with their murderous hands, 
" When he scorn'd to kneel for mercy, 

" And refus'd to join their bands ! 

" Not content to slay my lover, 

" They expos'd him on the ground, 

" Where I found his lifeless body 
cs Gor'd with many a brutal wound ! 



92 

" Half distracted there I sought him, 
" By the pale moon's rising beam, 

" 'Midst an heap of naked bodies, 

" Tho' o'erwhelm'd with maiden shame, 

" Soon his features I discover'd, 

" By the pale moon's silver ray ; 
" When my tears, in silent showers, 

" Wash'd the clotted gore away. 
i{ Clos'd in darkness, ne'er to open, 

" Were those eyes so skill'd to charm ; 
" Cold and lifeless were his pale lips, 

" Yet my kisses made them warm ! 

" When his manly limbs I shrowded, 

" In the veil and gown I wore, 
" Next night in this grave I laid him, 

" Never to behold him more ! — 
" Yes ! my tears bedew thy grave-stone ; 

" Alleyn, 'twas for this I came ! 
" Fondly too, to kiss each letter 

*' That inscribes thv dear-lov'd name ! 



93 

" Had he liv'd— (Oh faithless fortune !) 

" But that blessing Heaven denied ; 
" Long betroth'd, this morn had made me 

" My true lover's happy bride. 
" But alas ! our joys are ended 

" By the envious hand of death ; 
" Save that only joy that's left me, 

" Here to yield my latest breath. 

" Ah! what freezing damps surround me ! 

" Chilling cold assails my heart ; 
" O'er each limb I feel it stealing, 

" And in ev'ry vital part ! 
" Cease — Oh cease my poor heart beating I 

" How it flutters ! How it fades ! 
" What's this mist that floats before me, 

" And envelopes all in shades ? 

" See ! Oh see that babe-like spirit ! 

" Pitys self descends from high, 
" (Heaven's lov'd cherub), to conduct me 

(t From this world of misery." 



94 

Here she ceas'd her fond complaining, 
O'er the grave of Alleyn Cam 

For the shaft of death had silenc'd 
Lovely Jane of Castlebar ! 



FORT-OBERON, 

1805. 



95 



THE FAREWELL:* 

IN IMITATION OF THE SCOTCH BALLAD 
" DONALD." 



WHEN erst you wrote to rue, I own, 
I frankly favour'd you, Henry ; 

The purest verse, the softest tone, 
My first attention drew, Henry. 

Each plaintive note more sweet arose, 
Attun'd to love and me, Henry : 

Long hast thou left me to bewail 
I priz'd or them, or thee, Henry ! 



* " The Farewell" (by whom written I never knew) ap- 
peared in the " Star," an English newspaper, in the year 
1792, in which also several answers appeared some time 
after. The one here annexed was at that time printed in the 
" Sentimental and Masonic Magazine/' in Dublin, together 
with " The Farewell." 



96 

Oh ! then for ever keep away, 
For far I go from thee, Henry : 

Sport with the lads and lasses gay, 
Nor waste one thought on me, Henry. 

For I, alas ! can think of nane 

But one that's lorn, like me, Henry : 

If such an one thou canst not prove, 
Farewell to love and thee, Henry ! 



97 



HENRY TO EMMA. 



AND Emma ! — dost thou say " Farewell" 

For ever more to fly Henry ? 
And canst thou coldly thus repel 

Each thought of love, and thy Henry 1 

If erst you blest him with a smile, 
Oh ! now that you are flown, Emma ; 

Say, what has Henry done the while 
To change it to a frown, Emma ? 

Why bid me " ever keep away V 

Why say, " from me thou'lt go/' Emma ? 

Why speak of " lads and lasses gay V 
To break ray heart with woe, Emma ! 



9S 

What wonder that my verse was pure, 
And of " the softest tone/' Emma ! 

" Each plaintive note" was, from my heart, 
Attun'd to thee alone, Emma ! 

And if no more thou'lt — u think of nane 
" But one that's lorn like t hee," Emma, 

These lines may tell thy heart again, 
There's nane to mourn like me, Emma. 

I dare not ask thee to return, 

Nor whither thou art flown, Emma ; 

But, tho' unpitied here I mourn, 
Fll think on thee alone, Emma ! 

Thou say'st " Farewell" — without a tear — 
And now, since thou art/ree, Emma, 

I'll bid adieu to all the world — 

For what's the world to me, Emma ? 

HENRY. 

FORT-OBERON, 

1792. 



99 
SONG. 

IN REPLY TO " HOW SWEET'S THE LOVE," &C. 



WHEN first for her, whom all admire, 
My bosom glow'd with soft desire ; 
Fond hope allur'd my simple heart, 
And thrilFd thro' every vital part ; 
But now I sing, both night and morn, 
How bitter love return'd with scorn ! 

Then Lyra, innocently gay, 
And fair as young bright blooming May, 
Pleas'd still to please — to all was free— 
And, smiling round, srail'd too on me ; 
But now, &c. 

While, as she smil'd, no grief I knew, 
With rapture wing'd the seasons flew : 



100 

Fell winter past unheeded by, 
Blest in the sunbeam of her eye ; 
But now, &c. 

But Time, that changes as he flies, 
Dares to invade her lovely eyes ; 
For, where the graces shone, she now 
With cruel frowns has arm'd her brow 
And now, &c. 

But hear me — Oh thou heavenly pow'r ! 
(Celestial Love !) — in happy hour : 
Oh ! hear thy faithful votary's pray'r, 
And wing thee to the haughty fair ; 
Nor let me, &c. 

My countless sighs and tears impart 
In whispers to her virgin heart, 
Till soft-eyed pity from her eye, 
Its native charm again supply ; 
Nor let me, &c. 



101 

Go tell her, that a scornful air 
But ill becomes a form that's fair ; 
Let thy own smiles adorn her face, 
And every feature beam a grace ! 
That I mayn't, &c. 

Teach her to feel, as I have felt, 
(Till tenderness her bosom melt)— 
The fluttering throbs of hope that burn^ 
The chilling fears that quick return ; 
Nor let me, &c. 

My truth and constancy display, 
(While hope seems banish'd far away) 
That ev'n her scorn can't force to range, 
My heart incapable of change. 
Nor let me sing, both night and morn, 
flow bitter love return'd by scorn ! 



102 



m WILL YOU COME TO THE BOWR?" < 



A SONG. 



" WILL you come to the bow'r V said the nymph 
I adore, 
With a smile and a soft-rolling eye : 
" Will you come to the bowV — 'tis not far from 
the shore — 
And the soft cooling sea-breeze enjoy ? 
" Will you come to the bow'r V said the nymph I 
adore, 
" To the bow'r I have shaded for you f 
And sweetly she sung — " Our bed shall be hung 
" With roses ail spangled with dew/' 

* See a song of the celebrated Thos, Moore, beginning 
with these words, 



103 

To the bow r then I stray 'd, with my beautiful 
maid, 

And sweetly she carol'd along ; 
While the cooling sea-breeze softly brush'd thro* 
the trees, 

And love was the theme of her song. 
Wild, artless, and young — her voice, as she sung, 

And her looks did my vain fears reprove ; 
While a soft-breathing sigh, and a tear in her eye, 

Quite thrill'd thro* me with rapture and love. 

O erpower'd with her charms, in my fond circling 
arms 

I clasp'd the dear maid to my breast ; 
And, mingling sweet kisses — Oh what were my 
blisses 

When Ellen her passion confest ! 
In a week she was mine, by the powers divine, 

And blest be for ever the hour, 
When, to find out my care, and to banish despair, 

She suns; — " Will vou come to the bow'rT 



104 



THE VOICE OF LOVE. 



A SONG. 



THE voice of love, in tender youth, 
(Unskiird in all things but in truth) 
Devoid of guile, devoid of art, 
Breathes but the impulse of the heart. 

The tear supprest, the smother'd sigh, 
The conscious-meeting melting eye, 
Shall oft a mutual flame disclose, 
Ere faultering accents tell its woes. 

For yet, when tender passion's young, 
Silken-soft silence chains the tongue ; 
But sure, when two fond hearts unite, 
Hope, secretly, must be in sight ? 



105 

When Hodge avows his amorous pain, 
It is not for my Lady Jane ; 
But when you hear the rustic moan, 
Be sure 'tis all for — milkmaid Joan. 

When heavenly Hope to smile disdains, 
The shepherd wears not Venus* chains ; 
A princess may his wonder move, 
But never, never waken love ! 



106 



GIN YE BELIEVE ME. 



A SONG. 



GIN ye believe me, my bonnie sweet Mary ! 
Nane is sae dear to my heart as thysel : 
True is my heart, Mary, tender and faithfu'; 
My love for thee, Mary, nae tongue can e'er tell ! 

Why is that cloud on the brow of my Mary ? 
Why on thy Jamie alane dost thou frown 1 
Ah ! lovely maiden — thy scorn's past enduring— 
Tell me my fault, and — I'll strive to atone. 

But if, gentle Mary, almost to adore thee, 
Is the sad crime that thy anger doth move ; 
Frown on then, Mary, the sooner to heal it, 
For death, death alane e'er can sever my love ! 



EPITAPH $ SONNETS. 



EPITAPH AND SONNETS, 



AN EPITAPH. 

IF truth can claim the tribute of a tear, 
The gentlest of the gentle sex lies here ; 
Who thought that ev'ry heart was like her own, 
The seat of innocence, and virtue's throne. 

Studious alone her husband's love to share, 
Her infants' smiles, her mother's tender care, 
And God's approving will ; — of these possest, 
She thought no mortal was more fully blest ; 
Tho' health had flown her (never to return) 
In early life — (hard fate !) nor did she mourn 
The malady of tortur'd nerves to bear, 
Till Time had measur'd out his fifteenth year / 



110 

But smiPd, in agonies of cureless pain, 
And only griev'd that others should complain. 
Till Pity's self descended down from Heaven ; 
And Mercy, yielding to her voice, was given ; 
And, hand in hand, they've borne with them on 

high, 
Another spotless angel to the sky. 

Nov. 1805. 



Ill 

SONNETS, 

TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOVED OBJECT. 

SONNET I. 

DEAR shade of her who, from my earliest youth, 
Than life, than fortune, I more fondly lov'd ! 
Thou essence pure of innocence and truth, 
'Gainst whom the breath of slander never raov'd, 
From earliest infancy to that glad day 
That wing'd thee, happy spirit ! to the sky ; 
Where kindred angels hail'd thee on thy way 
To bliss transcendent and eternal joy. 
Wilt thou not, some time, take from Heaven thy 

flight, 
And, hovering o'er thy babes, without controul, 
Infuse into their hearts, with wont delight, 
Thy gentle virtues, and exalted soul ? 
And wilt thou sometime to thy Henry come, 
T accept a tribute tear oft shed upon thy tomb ? 



112 



SONNET II. 



ALL that I lov'd, and all that I admired ; 

All that could give me happiness or joy ; 
All that my fondest wishes e'er desired, 

Did Fate, with cruel tyranny, destroy ! 
Yet in my heart her image, deep imprest ; 

Her charms, her virtues, still possess my mind ; 
Her faults (how few !) shall in the grave have rest, 

Long, long has memory given them to the wind ! 
Flow on my tears, while thus, at midnight hour, 

Unseen, fond memory shall bid ye flow ! 
Yon' spire shall waken many a silent show'r — 

Beneath now lies the object of my woe ! 
All that my fondest wishes e'er desired, 
All that I lov'd, and all that I admired ! 



113 



SONNET III. 



TO THE SKYLARK. 

SWEET bird ! that with thy tuneful thrilling 
note 
Awak'st the dawn, and welcomes in the Spring ; 
The liquid warblings of thy dulcet throat 
Bid Nature's feather'd choiristers to sing. 
All hail with ecstasy the new-born year, 
And tributary songs of triumph raise ; 
Love smiles around ! and now no more appear 
Rude Winter's storms to drown the voice of praise! 
But, ah ! for me no Spring nor Summer smiles ; 
My widowed heart in secret anguish mourns ; 
No joy awaits, no transient hope beguiles, 
The dawn of happiness no more returns ! 
No, never, never ! — for in memory's wave 
O'erwhelm'd — 't has set with Lyra in the grave ! 
i 



114 



SONNET IV. 



WITH all the glowing ardor of wild youth-, 

When first I saw, I loved thee, admired ; 
With all th' impassion'd tenderness of truth, 

Thy artless innocence my soul inspired ! 
By truth and constancy I won thy heart, 

A prize more valued than the world possest ! 
And (blest beyond what language could impart) 

Possest awhile — but now no more am blest ! 
Ill-fated Lyra! Pity long shall mourn, 

In tears of memory, thy early fail ; 
Thy cruel sufferings ; the wrongs thou'st borne 

With patience, piety, and good-will to all. 
All that thou wast to mem'ry shall be dear ; 

Thy virtues ever shall my heart revere ! 



lli 



SONNET V. 



THE smile of welcome and the kiss of love, 

Sure to requite him with their blissful charms, 
Whene'er, returning, Henri/ homeward drove, 

And fondly hurried to his Lyras arms. 
The flush of crimson that o'erspread her cheek; 

The swimming lustre of her soft blue eyes ; 
The voice of melody, then wont to speak 

In tender, thrilling, rapturous surprize !-— 
Where are ye flown, ye transports of delight ? 

Transports, in full possession long enjoy 'dl 
Transports the purest — all the given right 

Of wedded love, that never, never cloy'd ! 
Oh sad reverse ! — While falls his silent tear, 
Yon' spire proclaims to wretched Henry, where! 



116 



SONNET VI. 



O MEMORY ! wakeful, fancy-haunting dream ! 
That in my true heart lifts thy mournful eye, 

And brings back Lyra — fairest, brightest theme- 
Theme, that with Henry's muse shall never die ! 

No, never ! never ! while within my breast 
Thy rays, bright vision ! waken to my view, 

And blighted love — or all Love's charms possest 
In wedded bliss— again those days renew. 

O Memory ! food of love's celestial flame ! 
Long shalt thou live ; oft to her tomb depart ; 

Pure as her soul; unsullied as her name ; 

Chaste as her thoughts ; yet, tender as her heart ! 

Still, still bring Lyra in thy brightest beam, 

O Memory— wakeful, fancy-haunting dream ! 



117 

SONNET VII. 



TO HAPPINESS. 

FOR ever and for ever thou art flown, 
Celestial, soul-delighting Happiness ! 
Thou'st flown, with flattering Hope, from me 
alone — 
From me, whom thou canst never longer bless ! 
Yet still on thee mine eye is backward cast, 
In tears of memory — brooding on the past ; 
While as I look — I gaze, methinks, my last, 
For ever, and for ever ! 

For ever and for ever woe the day 

When (like to friends united long) we parted ! 
Smiling in sorrow ; struggling to be gay ; 

With smother'd anguish bursting— broken-hearted ! 
Yes, thou art flown! — thou'st turn'd away thy face; 
No more thy rays transcendent I retrace : 
Clos'd are those eyes that beam'd on me their grace, 
For ever, and for ever ! 



118 

For ever and for ever, woe is me ! 

Woe, woe, that health to Lyra was denied ! 
Health flew, bright-beaming Happiness, with tfce, 

While youth and beauty yet were in their pride. 
Go then, while I of tender Pity crave 
A tear, for her that pity ever gave — 
For thou art flown with Lyra to the grave, 
For ever, and for ever! 



119 



SONNET, 

TO B. F. * AUTHOR OF " ELLEN. 



THE wit that " sets the table in a roar," 

Let others prize, while far to me more dear 
The artless tale, where mirth is seen no more, 

That claims a silent sympathetic tear. 
Oh thou, unknown, sweet minstrel ! whose soft lyre 

Bedews with tears thy " gentle Ellen's" hearse, 
A bosom, which thy tender lays inspire, 

Reponsive vibrates to thy plaintive verse, 
f " Griefs of mine own lie heavy at my heart ;" 

Sorrows congenial to thy woes, are mine ; 
Why else, ah ! why unseen, resistless start 

These tears, that follow thee thro' ev'ry line 1 
Thy " happier clays" dost thou, alas, deplore ? 
Thy " gentle Ellen" thou — I Lyra, now no more ! 

* See " The Athenaeum" for Dec. 1807. 
t Shakespewe, 



120 



SONNET, 

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM BROWNE, ESg.* 



THE fairest flow'rs, (the garden's vernal pride,) 
The virgin lily, and the blushing rose, 
Ere yet their full-blown beauties can disclose 
Their breathing sweetness — are no more descried. 
Thus William shone, a short-liv'd day, denied 
Beyond the blooming beauty of youth's prime 
To charm all eyes! — (a transitory time 
For virtue to each manly grace allied !) 



* Son to Martia Browne, Esq. of Cloonfad, in the 
county of Roscommon. This amiable youth was esteemed 
by all his acquaintance, and his untimely death as sincerely 
regretted by those who had ever seen him. 



121 

That he was fair in feature, and in form, 
Is not the tale of fond, or venal praise ; 
That he arriv'd to Virtue's bright renown, 
Adrnir'd by all — in bosoni'd rnem'ry warm, 
Truth, wing'd by friendship, in these artless lays, 
Breathes this weak tribute o'er the tomb of Browne, 

AMICUS- 

March, ISO?, 



122 
EPITAPH, 

ON TWO INFANTS BURIED TOGETHER. 

YE tender babes, whose little bones rest here, 
Who claim so often a fond parent's tear, 
How blest your fate ! — to you it has been given 
To rank amongst the Innocents of Heaven ! 



* ANOTHER EPITAPH ON THE SAME. 

SLEEP on, sweet innocents, and take your rest, 
(Tho' snatch'd untimely from your mother's breast,) 
Till the last trumpet's awful sound shall raise 
Your cherub voices to th' Almighty's praise ; 
Till, like the flow'rs now strew 'd around your tomb, 
Born once to fade — you'll then for ever bloom. 



* These Epitaphs were written at the request of a lady 
whose two (and only) children died when infants. 



THE 



DEATH OF MALVINA. 



THE 

DEATH OF MALVINA. 

(AN IMITATION OF OSSIAN.) 

WHO brings the harp to Ossian? — 'tis the hand 
of a stranger I feel. Softer than the down of 
Cana was thy hand, Oh, Malvina! when thou 
tookest down the harp to Ossian, from Selma's 
echoing hall, to sing of the times that are past, — 
the days of other years. 

Art thou gone, lonely maid, from my steps, and 
left me to wander alone, over streamy Morven's 
hills ? Thou wert a beam of light to my soul, but 
darkness now dwells sad in Selraa. Who will now 
lead the blind and mournful Ossian to the narrow 
house of the race of heroes ? — to the tomb of the 
mighty Oscar? — to bid the voice of sad grief be 
raised, to number the battles he won, to tell his 



126 

matchless deeds; — how valiant his arm was in the 
field of the strife of heroes ; how terrible to the 
foes of Fingal. For she loved to hear his praise ; 
to give the tear of memory fo the tale of other 
times, at the tomb of her youthful hero. 

* The voice of Cona is now raised to the last 
mournful tone of his harp, — his harp that re- 
sounded alone, the deeds of the valiant in battle ; 
the noble actions of generous souls ; or the hapless 
loves of the soft-bosomed daughters of virtue, — 
the lovely lights of the world, of the race of the 
heroes of Seima! Many are the songs of his 
praise; many the tales of other times, of the 
deeds of youthful heroes ; but the worthless, de- 
generate, and base of mind — sons of a narrow 
soul, have received no name from Ossian : they 
are left to the scorn of their foes. — Why should 



* " The voice of Coca," seems to have been a poetical 
title cf Ossian. See Ossiarts Poems, 



1^7 

Ossian strike the strings of liis harp] — Fingal, king 
of heroes, is gone ! Oscar, my son, is no more ! 
And cold in the narrow house lies fair-haired 
Ryno ! No longer tremble the sons of green- 
valiied Erin at the sound of their clanging arms. 
There is none left of the far-famed heroes of Sel- 
ma, but Ossian, king of spears. The storm of 
death has laid them low, and Ossian stands alone. 
His* age is now without a friend : the last was the 
lovely daughter of Toscar. 

By a roaring stream are four grey stones : their 
heads are cover'd with moss : the winds sigh 
around. Bring me there. It is the dwelling of 
Oscar, my son : — there raise the tomb of Malvina! 
Oscar, the pride of her soul lies there. She fol- 
lows him to the narrow house. In death she 
would sleep by the side of my son. 

Maids of Lutha, raise the song of woe. No 



128 

more beams your lovely light ! To your soft voice 
of grief the harp of Ossian shall swell its last 
mournful strains. Silent, and unstrung then in 
his hall, shall rest the harp of the desolate Ossian; 
never more to be heard on the hills of far-famed 
Selma. The race of heroes is fallen ! Alone I 
stand, as an aged oak on the hill, that withstands 
long the storm of years. — But who remains unsung, 
by Ossian, king of harps, of Morven's thousand 
heroes ? Other times shall hear their deeds, and 
lift loud the voice of their praise. 

Is this the tomb of Oscar? — the pride of far- 
famed Morven's race! — first of youthful heroes ! 
Here lay the lovely daughter of Toscar. Undi- 
vided they were in their loves: undivided they 
would be in the narrow-house. Raise the song of 
woe, soft-bosom'd maids of Lutha ! Great was 
the fame of my son, and true to his love was 
Malvina. 



129 

FIRST AND SECOND VIRGIN. 

Low is Lutha's maicl ! our beam of light now 
shines do more ! Already flies her ghost on the 
meteors of night, over the hills of streamy Mor- 
ven. It floats on the distant mist to the spirit of 
car-borne Oscar. Here in the narrow house he 
lies, first of youthful heroes ! Maids of Lutha, 
weep : our lovely beam of light is set. This is the 
tomb of Malvina ! 

THIRD AND FOURTH VIRGIN. 

The voice of Cona shall cease on his hills, and 
silence dwell sad in Selma. Her heroes no longer 
return from the blue-rolling waves of Erin : No 
more, in her echoing-hall, is heard the clang of 
their sounding arms. The feast of shells is no 
longer spread to a thousand of Fingal's heroes. 
The storm of the battle is fallen ; and our bright- 
ness of beauty is set ! No voice is heard on our 
hills: the fallen speak not from the narrow 
kouse, but their ghosts are seen flying over the 

K 



130 

heath on the rolling misls of night, and Ossian 
stands alone ! Maids of Lutha, weep : The storm 
of the battle is fallen; and our brightness of 
beauty is set ! Here, in the dust of the earth, is 
the dwelling of the mighty Oscar! Here raise the 
tomb of Malvina ! 

FIFTH AND SIXTH VIRGIN. 

The sweet voice of Cona may cease on his hills: 
His harp may rest silent in the lonely hall of the 
bard : No warrior's name remains unsung of Fin- 
gal's matchless race. Their fame is known in 
other lands. The harp of Ossian has resounded 
to distant times, the deeds of the heroes of Selma* 
Who was like to Fingal 1 first of mortal men ! — 
Who like to Ossian ? king of spears ! —Who, in 
the beauty of manly youth, in drawing the bow 
and the spear, like fair-hair'd Ptyno ? And who, 
of a thousand warriors, dare stand in the way of 
Oscar's terrible wrath? — terrible in the field of 
battle, as the rushing storm uprising from the dark 



131 

roiling waves of the ocean, and roaring round the 
troubled heads of the mountains, tears down the 
strong oak from his roots. — But, when peace bid 
the warrior return, and hang up his spear, and 
his shield, while the feast of shells was prepared, 
— he was gentler than the soft-wing'd breeze, 
when the beauty of spring smiles around, and the 
bright sun slopes down to his rest. — But now he 
sleeps in dust! — This is the dwelling of the mighty 
Qscar. Raise the song of grief, soft-bosom'd 
maids of Lutha. Our beam of light now shines 
no more! She has followed to the narrow house 
of Oscar ! Here raise the tomb of Malvina I 

SEVENTH ANJ> EIGHTH VIRGIN, 

If Oscar was matchless among a thousand of 
Morven's heroes, who, of a thousand maids, in 
the brightness of beauty and youth, was like the 
daughter of generous Toscar ] Her eyes were two 
stars of night, when the sky is cloudless and calm 
unmatch'd in their brilliance of lustre! Her bo- 



132 

som, the rising foam of the ocean! Her hair, 
like soft curling mists waving over a field of snow! 
Her smile was a beam of the sun ! Lovely in the 
eyes of men was Lutha's far-fam'd maid; but 
none could win her love, but the hero of match- 
less deeds. Maids of Lutha, weep: beneath this 
stone together they rest: Oscar, prince of heroes! 
and our lovely light, Malvina. 

NINTH AND TENTH VIRGIN. 

When our ships returned, bounding over the 
blue rolling waves of Erin, high on a distant rock 
sat Lutha's lovely maid. As a beam of the sun is 
seen, at intervals, in the beauty of brightness, 
smiling through the soft-falling tears of young 
spring, so shone the fair daughter of generous 
Toscar. The soul of the maid was disturbed, 
and her bosom rose in throbbing sighs, like the 
swelling surge of the sea, that foretels the gather- 
ing storm. Her snow-white arms were tossed ia 
air, and her blue eyes of beauty bent wildly ia 



133 

doubtful joy, where streamy Morven's chiefs came 
crowding on the shore. But their steps were heavy 
and sad, and she rolled her eyes in tears. — 
" Where is Oscar 1* she cried, " pride of the he- 
roes of Selma!" — Twelve youths approached, in 
their steps of sad mourning slow : in the midst a 
corpse was borne. — " It is Oscar ! Oh ! Oscar, 
my love! — and is my hero fallen]" — Awhile she 
stood trembling, like a leaf that is wither'd in 
autumn's rude blast, then pale she sunk to the 
earth! — Ker mxidens were at hand, and came 
weeping round the daughter of Toscar. — She rose 
in the silence of grief: no tear was in her eye: 
no murmur escaped her lips. The blushing roses 
of health fast fdded on her cheek of beauty. The 
music of her voice was no longer heard, with the 
lark of the valley at dawn, by the blue-trembling 
stream of Luiha. She strung her harp only in 
tears, in Selma's deserted hall ; or to mourn at the 
narrow house of the pride Gf heroes, when the 
darkuess of night was around, But she wandered 



134 

not long in her tears, round the dwelling of car- 
borne Oscar. The canker of grief prey'd upon 
the tender heart of the maid, and in silence she 
sunk on his tomb. Here sleeps, in her rest, the 
lovely light of far-famed Lutha, and darkness now 
covers our hills. Our bright star of beauty is 
flown, and we mourn at the tomb of Malvina. 

ELEVENTH AND TWELFTH VIRGIN. 

Nightly to her hero's tomb alone went the maid 
in her tears. Nightly she saw his ghost in the 
dark rolling mist of the hill, fly on the wings of 
the winds. " Not long shalt thou wander alone 
" over streamy Morven's hills: Malvina shall fol- 
<c low thee soon," said the soft-handed daughter of 
Toscar. Awhile in the valley of Cona, the sweetly 
mournful voice of her harp was heard, floating in 
soft murmurs along the distant breeze of night to 
the spirit of car-borne Oscar, when the moon 
gave her trembling beam of light to the lonely 
steps of the maid, over Morven's waving woods. 



135 

Soft and sad was the tale of other times : Of Os- 
car's fame she sung. How great were the deeds 
of his youth : How matchless his sword of steel : 
How terrible his wrath to the dark sons of green- 
vallied Erin. But the pride of heroes now sleeps 
in dust: The storm of the battle is fallen! In a 
land of strangers he fell, by an hundred trea- 
cherous spears at once, at the feast of the gloomy 
Cairbar! Who singly, in the field of strife, dare 
stand before his sword of steel? — His departure 
has been in renown, with the chief of Morven's 
heroes. Maids of Lutha, weep : The sweet voice 
of Cona has ceased, aud silence dwells on our 
hills. Lonely he sits in his hall. The last of 
FingaFs race is Ossian, king of spears ! He bends 
like an aged oak on his hill, whose strength in his 
years is decay'd, over the narrow house of Oscar, 
his son. Maids of Lutha, weep : Malvina is now 
no more ! Low in her cold bed she rests with the 
pride of her youthful soul. The eyes that were 



136 



brighter in beauty than the cloudless dawn of the 
day, have closed in the dark night of death. I 
saw her ghost on a meteor of heaven, with the 
spirit of car-borne Oscar. The lovely light of 
our fame is set, never to rise more in Selma. But 
other times shall hear her name : The sweet voice 
of Cona has resounded to distant lands, the fame 
of the daughter of Toscar. Often, in the land of 
strangers, yet unborn, shall the song of praise 
waken the tear of pity, silently stealing down the 
cheek of beauty ; while it swells to the tune of the 
harp, and the soft-bosoni'd " Maid of Lutha" 
is the theme of the mournful bard. Here in the 
narrow house she lies, with Oscar, the pride of 
her soul. She followed him to his cold bed in 
the dust of the earth. In death she would sleep 
by his side. This is the dwelling of the mighty 
Oscar : this is the tomb of Malvina ! 



137 

ADDRESS, 

The following passage, and note annexed* 
taken from " Berrathon," Gssian's last poem,, 
probably occasioned the whim of writing the fore- 
going Imitation. " Go, with thy rustling wing, 
" O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises 
P yonder beneath the rock, at the bine stream of 
" Luiha. The maids * are departed to their place. 
" Thou alone, O breeze, mournest there V 

Far more of the blemishes than the beauties of 
Ossian, are, without question, discernible in " The 
Death of Malvina;" (if, indeed, I dare believe 
that it will be allowed to possess any of the latter) 
— a fate, which, perhaps, usually attends professed 
Imitations. The subject, and manner in which it 
was to be conducted, forced me into a repetition 
of expressions and phrases, many of which, I ap- 



* " The young virgins who sung the funeral elegy oyer 
her tomb.' ' 



138 

prehend, are in the very words of Ossian. Ori- 
ginally it was written (as I believe almost all 
trifles of fancy are) merely in the self-amuse- 
ment of writing, and with no view of giving to the 
public ; but as there is such variety in the senti- 
ments and taste of those who compose what is 
called the world, that while two or three of a 
dozen persons can discover both the " sublime and 
" beautiful/' * in the poems of Ossian, yet others 
accuse them of being altogether but so much 
" unintelligible jargon V f — It is only then, with 
the humble hope of amusing even one or two in 
so many dozen of the readers of poetry, that this, 
or any other trifle of my pen, is now offered to the 
public. 

London, Jan. 1808. 



* See " Henry's History of England'' for a satisfactory 
•account of Ossian, and his Poems, 
f A modern Editor of Poetry. 



139 



* ADDRESS TO THE SKYLARK. 

ARISE, sweet herald of the dawn ! and pour 
fortli thy soul in song. Slumberest thou, nestling 
with the chosen mate of thy heart, while I wander 
the fields at large 1 The moonbeam grows dim 
in my sight, and the star of the morning is set ; 
yet I listen in vain for thy voice, sweet herald of 
the dawn ! 

Yes, now, little warbler, at length, from t' e 
blossoming heath thou hast sprung, and thy wild- 
fiowing carol I hear. — From the dew-spangled 
heath he has sprung, and soaring mounts with 
sprightly notes of joy, and rapturous love, (loud 



* Whether this Address to the Skylark, and the short 
effusions that follow in a similar style, were intended as 
imitations of Qssian, I cannot pretend to say, as I have 
totally forgot ; but I do not perceive that they bear any 
other resemblai 
poetical prose. 



140 

in the hearing of his chosen mate) to hail the up- 
rise of the dawn. His little heart, even now, with 
pride and exultation at the height, keeps, as he 
soars, an equal measure to the soft fluttering of 
his wings, and his sweet warbling music is pour'd, 
to vie with his brothers of song, (the earliest of 
the feather'd race) to hail the purple wing'd morn, 
and give the glad tidings around. Hark! as he 
soars, sweeter and softer are his thrilling strains ! 
and now their melody dissolves, in distance from 
the ear, amid ethereal clouds, and the azure se- 
renity of high heaven's expanse. — Now, now I 
hear no more. — Soft ! it returns : More heavenly 
sweet in thrilling melody ! In floating measures 
down the soft-wing'd breeze it strikes the enrap- 
tured ear. — See! yonder is the tuneful choris- 
ter: down he descends, and o'er yon* daisied 
haunts, glides to the speckled partner of his joys. 
A thousand warblers now repeat his song. 



141 



MORNING. 

AURORA 's risen ! The sprightly lark, with 
his sweet matin song, has haii'd her uprise ; and 
unnumbered voices, in tuneful emulation, warb- 
ling their sweet notes wild, give the glad tidings 
to the awakened world. See how her eye, soft- 
beaming its mild light, chequers the etherkl ca- 
nopy around, with grey and crimson! Now in 
her golden car, mounting the blue horizon of the 
east, young, blooming, lovely — full in view she 
comes ; her cheeks suffused with deeper-blushing 
hues, as farther she flies from the fiery-eyed Phce- 
bus, who pursues in the ardor of love. But in 
vain in the bosom of night, any refuge she seeks 
from his gaze : Night, faster than Aurora's steeds, 
flies unperceived before. See, here are the tears 
of night on the harebell and young-leaved haw- 
thorn, already glistening in the enravished eye of 
the sun. Behold, he rises behind yon mountains* 



142 

that mingle their blue heads with the eastern 
clouds, and from his rapid chariot pours his 
broad beam of day o'er all the world. How 
bright are his locks of gold ! They float on the 
wings of the wind, and are scatter'd in loose-flow- 
ing waves o'er yon' eastern clouds of snow. 

Resound, ye vallies, hills, and dales, in tribu- 
tary songs of vocal praise, from feathered choris- 
ters around, the warbling melody of nature wild, 
grateful in the ear of heaven : for yon' sun-beam 
ihat mounts up the east, — (the soul and the parent 
©f life) is the gift of the King of the Heavens! 



Ui 



SPRING. 

SWEET is the breath of Spring ! delightful the 
gales of the morn! They give health to the cot- 
tage maid ; strength to the nervous clown. They 
brush down the mountain's brow, and they glide 
through the flowery mead. The heath has yielded 
them its sweets ; its perfume the aromatic thyme, 
They have skim'd o'er the garden of herbs, and 
have rifled the violet bank. They kiss the sweet- 
briar in his hedge ; the cowslip beneath my feet ; 
and the primrose, fair daughter of Spring, that 
blooms modestly under a thorn ! She courts not 
the eye of admiration : she retires from the voice 
of praise; but her sweets are diffusive around.— 
How delightful the gales of the morn! How 
sweet the mild breath of the Spring ! 

THE END. 



\V. Wilson, Printer, St. John's Square. 



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